


Colours

by Forbiddenmichael



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Ashton Irwin - Freeform, Calum Hood - Freeform, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Luke Hemmings - Freeform, Michael Clifford - Freeform, always the same, and then ash turns up, another one in a coffee shop, but yeah thats it, from your point of view, her life is boring, hes cute as always, hes the new guy, pining basically, so its about you, the other boys arnt in this, you are the girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forbiddenmichael/pseuds/Forbiddenmichael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being alive and living were completely different. And you meaningless excuse of a life was the latter. A world of dull greys and black. That was until something or someone splashed colour all over your dreary existence. </p><p>or when the owner of the coffee shop recruits a new barista and a bright vibrant boy crashes through your life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colours

**Author's Note:**

> im quite proud of this one ah,, okay yeah maybe you do??

At 6.45 every morning your alarm went off. A shrill beeping noise that woke you up for work every day, rudely interrupting the limited amount of sleep you already had.

At 7.00 every morning, you walked from your dark bedroom to the kitchen, had a much needed caffeine intake thanks to a black coffee, -not that you liked black coffee, you just needed something to wake you up- had the same cereal with a little too much milk and blinked into the dark of the kitchen.

At 7.30 every morning, you were changed in a plain boring outfit, only varying slightly- it’s not like you could vary from the stick ‘smart look’ and ditch the mandatory black suit trousers for skinny jeans- and just adding the final touches to your makeup.

At 7.40 every morning you were turning the key in the lock of your front door. Double locking it from the outside to stop any intruders. Not that it was likely something that exciting would happen in your life anyway.

At 7.50 every morning you had walked half the way to the grey brick building you would have to spend eight hours in, from 9am to 5pm, doing pointless repetitive things that someone felt the need to get done.

At 8.00 every morning you entered the tiny coffee shop. It was just within the shadow of the multi-storey concrete building you worked in, you could even see it from one of the sparkling clean windows of the little shop.

At 8.10 every morning, you sat in the same cracking leather seat at the back of the family owned coffee shop. Engulfed in the roomy chair that you sat in every morning, the smell of freshly brewing beans filling your nose and scenting your clothes for the rest of the day. An open paper of the day in your lap, normally flipped to the forth or fifth page before your order was deliver onto the shin high, dark wood, side table just in front of you. A tall skinny latte with a side of three tiny shortbreads and a bagged blueberry muffin for lunch time. It was delivered by the same chipper old woman-the owner of the shop- she set the tray down with a smile and not much else. Knowing from your sombre expression you were in no mood to make idle chit-chat about the weather. 

At 8.40 every morning, after finishing the steaming drink and reducing the shortbread to crumbs, reading all the print off the paper that never had anything interesting in it anyway; you would grab the packaged blueberry muffin. With a small nod and a smile to the tittering old woman behind the counter, you would leave the shop, battling the dreary elements to trudge to work.

At 8.50 every morning, you scanned your key card through the automated entrance system, then pushed though the heavy door into the equally grey interiored building. The too-thick carpet making you wobble on your ‘strictly regulation’ high heel shoes, and then the tiled floor slapping and clicking as you walked across it.

At 8.55 every morning, you plonked down into the red swivel chair with the too upright backrest, too hard stuffing and too squeaky wheels.

At 9.00 every morning, the courier would come round; deliver a packet or two of letters to mark up and send off, or something as equally boring.

And by 9.05 every morning, you were screaming internally, hating the stupid clicking of the computers around you, the occasionally incessant ringing of a telephone, the ‘business chatter’ around you from your colleges, and the fact you were stuck here-immersed in all of it with no way out. 

And that was how it was every day, well Monday to Friday. How it had been for the last two years. An endless, repetitive, mind-numbing, excruciating cycle that brought you to tears and reduced you to feeling like a computer on an endless control. Nothing changed, nothing happened, it was all kept under strict rules. Rules, boundaries, and regulations controlled what a pathetic excuse of a life you were living. But that was just it, you weren’t living, just merely existing. Weekends were no better. Normally consisting of sleeping in, and reaching that point of sleep when you’ve just had too much and you feel worst because of it. Having no one to simply text to meet up-when were you meant to have time to meet people who didn’t click away at their computer at work all day? - you would simply drag your duvet off your small bed, taking it with you to the sofa in the front room, where you would spend the rest of the day watching some mindless TV series-which more often than not was pointless and dumb anyway. The highlight of the weekend would be when the doorbell rang, signalling the arrival of some high calorie, high sugar, high salt, oil dunked junk food. Looking like a mess every time you answered the door to the underpaid kid of your age, you were rewarded with a look of sympathy which made your stomach churn and your heart squeeze.  
Being alive and living were completely different. And you meaningless excuse of a life was the latter. A world of dull greys and black. That was until something or someone splashed colour all over your dreary existence. 

*** 

Sitting in the same seat of the coffee shop, directly in front of the door that would open with a new customer, bringing with it a strong breeze that blew through the flared bottoms of your trousers and chilling your legs, you were waiting for your order. Nothing was out of the ordinary, the paper was still in your lap like it was every day, the smell of freshly ground and brewing beans still enveloped you and the elderly lady with wispy white hair had still to take your order. So as your second coffee of the day was delivered along with the two other edibles, you didn’t even glance up from the paper. That was until a voice talked, loud but made even louder due to your silence and the expected silence. A strong think Australian accent erupted from a tall, well-built boy. He was your age, with long messy hair, brownish in colour, kept away from his face by a thick black bandana with white embroidery, a smiley face and hazel eyes that twinkled when he saw your startled expression. To taken aback by the boy in front of you, you faltered, completely missing what he had said as you sat there, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. He giggled- oh my god, he was a guy! Guys giggles weren’t meant to sound so cute and make you want to squish them!- and motioned to the tray set on the mini table, “Your order?” he questioned with an eyebrow raised but the beginnings of a smirk playing on his lips. 

“I’m new here” he added on the end quickly, which was unnecessary as you think you would have noticed the bubbly boy here before since you came here every day. Waking yourself from your thoughts momentarily, you mumbled a “Um, yeah, uh thanks” at the boy who just smiled a blinding smile, leaving you breathless as he walked away. His long legs setting a huge stride, the tight material of the black jeans he was wearing clinging to every part of his lower half and the long, but still clean and new apron he was wearing tied in a perfect little bow at the back. So as you sat with the coffee in your hands, still too hot to drink but keeping your hands warm anyway, you thought about how the boy had spoken so confidently. The accent to his voice highlighting certain parts of words that you wouldn’t of done, the way the corner of his mouth tilted upwards in such a way that invited you to talk to him, and the way his arms had flexed and the light golden coloured hair that flecked them rippled as he put the tray down on the table. 

If anyone noticed you sit down at your desk for work ten minutes late that day, the package of useless mind numbing work already on your desk, the slight blush on your cheeks from speed walking from the café, and the rare smile that was tugging at your lips, then no one said anything. And no one needed to know that it was due to a thirty second conversation you had had with a boy with an Australian accent and curly hair, in a coffee shop that you went to ever day. Whilst doing what someone, somewhere had decided was worthy of doing, you firmly decided that maybe tomorrow, or another day -once you had plucked up the courage-, you would get up at 6.15 one morning, and spend maybe just a bit- a lot- longer than your usual half an hour sipping the same coffee, but observing something other than the days paper. Someone more like. 

Doing the same thing you did every morning, trying to ignore the abnormal feeling of butterflies and nerves in your stomach, you arrived at the coffee shop half an hour early. After about two weeks of plucking up the courage to go early, today was the day. You sat down on the leather armchair as per normal, reaching down the side of the chair into the magazine rack for the paper; you opened it on your lap. Still not having ordered anything you were not expecting the loud clunk of a tray and the rattling of the cup and tiny plate. “Skinny latte, shortbread and a blueberry muffin, right?” a deep voice asked. Jumping slightly at the unexpected presence, you were even more surprised when a soft pft of air come from the compression of the stuffing of the chair opposite. Looking at the boy who was leaning on his elbows which were rested on his knees and sitting in the chair, your breath was stolen. It was the same boy with the black bandana from the other day, today his unruly hair was tied back by a black band, in a short of messy bun that should look feminine but just didn’t, but everything else was the same. His eyes still held the same twinkle and the deep colour of them shone brightly against his dark, long eyelashes. Eyelashes that fluttered lightly against the soft rosy skin of his cheeks. “Uh yeah” you said, stumbling slightly over his words. “Good” He said, settling more back into the chair. To say you were gobsmacked would be an understatement. Was he not going to elaborate? Maybe share the knowledge of why the hell he had suddenly decided to take the never before occupied seat opposite you? Or maybe why on earth was he smiling at you like that, showing large dimples in his cheeks?  
Scrambling around with words in order to form a coherent sentence, you spoke, and immediately after almost hit yourself in the face from your stupidity. “Hi?” you said, the end of the word rising upwards as if it was a question. 

He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound erupting straight from his wide chest. “Hey” he laughed out, raising his hand and waving as he did so. God, his hands were massive. Oh my god, what the hell even was this?! The flushed feeling started to spread through your face, warming your cheeks and adding colour to them. You felt the need to cover your face, put a distance between you and the captivating boy sitting less than two feet in front of you. Watching you flailing around and grasp for something g to say, the messy haired boy smiled. Pearly teeth showing through his lips. “So, do I get to know your name?” he asked, airiness and lightness in his voice. “Or will you be forever know as Shortbread Girl?” cocking his eyebrow as he revealed the fact he did know of you- and want to get to know you better, maybe, hopefully? Spluttering around the coffee you had been slurping, using it as an excuse not to talk or come up with some pathetic excuse of a response, you caught your breath. “Y/N” you coughed out. “Y/N” you said again more clearly, confirming it and returning your voice from the croaky mess it had been before to something resembling normal. “Y/N” the boy spoke, rolling your name round in his mouth, adding his accent to it in a way that made your stomach thump with butterflies. He stood up now, his arms flexing when he used them to push himself up and out of the chair. Looking down at you from his standing position, “Y/N is beautiful” he spoke, emphasising your name, liking the way it formed in his mouth, “But you’ll still be my Shortbread Girl”. Before you could fathom what he had just said, let alone ask him for his name, he had sautered off, leaving you with a gapping mouth and a half empty cup of now cold coffee. My, did he just refer to you as “my”, as in his, as in like belonging to him?! You were going to pass out. When you sat down at your desk later on you felt on cloud nine, and you hadn’t even found out his name. 

Days past, but no words were shared. Pearly white smiles were passed and given, but other than when delivering your order, the dazzling boy stayed firmly behind the counter-much to your disappointment. It wasn’t really his fault, the orders came thick and fast and he didn’t have a moment to spare to spend time with a blithering idiot like you who couldn’t put two words together whenever he was near. You had learnt his name though. Ashton. That was it, just Ashton. Not that you needed anything else. The two syllables of the name always floating around in your head. You also hadn’t come early since the day he had sat down opposite you. 

But when you woke up half an hour late, for the first time in weeks the thoughts of the boy at the coffee shop were pushed to the back of your head. So much so, as you rushed into the coffee shop, grabbing your order which someone had transferred into a travel mug and bag- smiling slightly at a blushing Ashton- you didn’t notice the black print on the side of the take away bag on the muffin carrier, but you did have a fleeting thought about why the boys cheeks were slightly pink when you flashed him a smile and dashed back out of the store. Throwing yourself down on the red swivel chair at your desk you reached for the coffee, taking a sip and smiling slightly at the fact it was still warm. You reached for the travel bag, hoping- and praying- that the shortbread as well as the muffin was in there as a sugar fix was welcome, but stopped and almost dropped the coffee as you saw the messy writing on the side. “Ash xo” followed by a series of numbers, a telephone number. Feeling your throat tighten and your chest squeeze, it was all you could do not to squeal and start friggen’ dancing when it clicked into place why the boy had slightly pink cheeks before. 

Three weeks, what felt like- and could well have been- thousands of text messages, and maybe a date or two -that weren’t just measly conversations at the coffee shop later, the butterflies you felt whenever Ashton flashed you that dimpled smile hadn’t vanished, and could only be said to have intensified. The flip of your stomach was the same every time, and by the huge smile that you never saw any other time, there was a slight chance that maybe he felt the same.  
He was leaning up against the side of the shop, a cup and bag in his hands. Your usual shoes clicking on the concrete path as you approached him, notifying him of your arrival. He smiled, flipping his today untamed hair from his eyes. “What you doin’ out here?” you asked, brow furrowing as you looked at his tall frame, now void of his apron. “Well I’ve got this” he said waving your coffee and bag in your face, smirking slightly. You laughed slightly, waiting for him to get on with it, as you knew that wasn’t his only reason. “And we have this stupid rule that I can’t do this with customers, and technically out here you’re not a customer” he finished, expecting you to not understand what he was talking about. “Do what?” you asked, confusion clear in your voice. Smiling, obviously expecting the confused question, he switched the contents of his hands into the one hand, he reached the other up to your cheek. Softly cupping your cheek, he brought himself down to your height, keeping inches away from your face. “This” he whispered, breath fanning your face, then closing the distance. 

His lips tasted sweet, yet bitter with the taste of coffee, they were dry but warm on yours as he angled your lips between his. The top of your lips slotted between his as he carried on kissing you, the warmth rising in your cheeks as his thumb ran in circles on your flushed skin. He flicked his tongue out, running along your bottom lip, but as you opened your mouth to allow access he pushed at you lightly. “You’ll be late” he mumbled, his lips catching on yours. Still keeping a close distance, you flicked your eyes up to his hazel ones. The pupils in them were only the slightest bit dilated, barely noticeable but still a black colour against the usual hazel. “Does it look like I’m that bothered?” you murmured before kissing him again, this time opening your mouth and letting him trail his hand down to the small of your back to pull you closer, feeling your chests touching. 

That boy in the coffee shop had brought colour to your life. Colour in the sense of coffee beans, miniature shortbreads and blueberry muffins. All served with a smile, a shine and glint in lgiht chocolate coloured eyes and a flick of perfectly styled hair. The grey in your life was now just the concrete of a building, or the sidewalk outside and not the bleak colour of your life. Live and fulfilment flowed through you like the blood in your veins. Bright and vibrant like the colours of a rainbow. A kaleidoscope of feeling, emotions, and thoughts brightened your day, your week, your life and all thanks to a boy in a coffee shop.  
A simple boy called Ashton.


End file.
